“When I see how little you people of New England regard who is, or who is not, upon the throne,” Branderby went on, “when I see those splendid ships of yours lying at anchor or rotting at their docks, when I hear the growing murmurs of discontent and questioning where once men accepted the King’s will and thought he could do no wrong, I wonder, lad, I wonder what will come of it. The signs of great changes are in the air, but I cannot read their meaning.” He was silent again, musing upon the question that so perplexed his mind. He and Stephen both heard, presently, footsteps upon the sand, coming toward them from beyond the great stone. They had seen, in the distance, a shabby woman of Hopewell digging for clams, aided by her ragged boy. The footsteps were evidently of these two, coming home again since now the sun was dropping low. Unseen and not observing the soldier and the boy, they passed by on the further side of the high grey rock. “Mother,” the boy’s voice was saying, “I have heard that Stephen Sheffield is getting well at last. Will he be able to play at Indian scouts with me soon again, think you?” The woman’s voice answered slowly: “It is not likely that the Sheffield lad will ever run and play again with the other boys,” she said. “The doctor, so people tell me, says that he will live, and will not be crippled, but that he never will be well and strong again like other children.” The two passed on and never knew of the secret that they had betrayed. Stephen heard them with his face gone white and his eyes wide with terror. “Tell me,” he cried to Branderby, “she does not know? That is not true?” The old soldier growled and muttered something below his breath, something far from flattering in regard to idle women who gossip on the beach. “I will know,” gasped Stephen, shaking him by the arm with all his feeble strength. “You shall tell me. Did the doctor say such a thing?” “In my opinion,” grumbled the Sergeant, “these men of medicine know little and their word is scarce worth believing.” “But did he say it?” persisted Stephen. “I will have the truth.” “I would sooner face a siege cannon belching smoke and fire,” muttered Branderby. Then he turned to Stephen and looked him fairly in the eyes. “We are both men,” he said steadily, “and a real man can bear a blow though it be a hard and bitter one. Yes, lad, he did say it.” Stephen made no answer, for he had flung himself face downward upon the sand. One long terrible sob shook his thin body and then he lay still. The Sergeant’s hard, rough hand was laid over his clenched one. “There are some that help the world forward by their strength of arm,” he said gently, “and some by their power of mind and will. We cannot all be of one kind or the other, for we know the world has need of both.” The boy sat up. There was a flush on his thin cheek and his jaw was set firmly.